


brutal truth

by CapnShellhead



Series: Kinktober 2018 [8]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Hate Sex, Kinktober, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, hickmanvengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 09:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16261220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnShellhead/pseuds/CapnShellhead
Summary: In the aftermath of the destruction of Wakanda and Atlantis, Namor and T'Challa find an understanding.





	brutal truth

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this for a while. The relationship I really latched onto reading Hickmanvengers was Namor and T'Challa's. I really like their dynamic and the complex discussions they were having. I initially intended to write a longer piece. I may still do that. '
> 
> For Day 8 of Kinktober for the prompt "Hate-fucking".

The fire raged on behind them, crackling as it burned through the wood feeding it.

The room in disarray, a chair turned on its side and one smashed to splinters. The couch against the wall, one corner lodged in the plaster of the wall. Two men stood in the center.

Namor’s excited breaths were loud in T’Challa’s ears, his plush lips parted as he gazed on with interest. His teeth were sharp, glinting white as his surprise gave way to arrogance.  Rage gripped T’Challa once more, his hands slamming Namor into the solid brick between one breath and the next. The smug grin widened as Namor relaxed into the crater left behind.

“What’s the matter?”

“Do not play dumb with me. It is beneath you,” he hissed.

Even as he burned with anger, T’Challa felt overcome by an emotion he couldn’t describe. He’d known he couldn’t trust the man before him and, yet, he’d thrown his chips in with him anyway. And now, Wakanda had suffered. His people had suffered. He’d failed at his only calling in life.

“I am simply inquiring as to which of my actions led to _this_ fight. Which is it?” Namor asked, his temple pulsing.

“My kingdom was destroyed,” T’Challa bit out.

“As was mine.” His mouth formed a grim line. “I warned you not to let your sister engage me. You didn’t listen. My war was with your kingdom. Not with you.”

“I am my kingdom.”

His gripped Namor's throat in one hand, leaning in closer. The scent of saltwater and ale grew stronger as he pressed into Namor’s space. “You will pay for what you have done.”

Namor’s eyes widened, bright and certain. “All in due time.” He sucked in a breath, rolling his hips forward. “But that isn’t why I’m here, is it?”

T’Challa’s heart beat ticked up, his eyes narrowing as Namor rolled against him once more, more brazenly. T’Challa yanked him forward by the lapel of his vest. “You think I would touch you?”

“I heard what they were saying about us.” He cocked his head to the side, eying T’Challa consideringly. “We ‘consort’ with one another. You knew the implication. You could have corrected them.” T’Challa growled, squeezing tighter around his throat, the claws of his suit digging in deep. Pinpricks of blood appeared but Namor’s breathing only grew deeper, his eyes darkening with lust.

“You said nothing.” Namor’s face was inches away, his eyes alit as his cheeks started to redden. ‘Almost as if it was true,” he finished.

Silence.

T’Challa’s heart pounded hard in his chest, the fire raging on dangerously. His hand tightened, every fiber of his body burning with the hatred he felt for this man. He could kill him now. It wouldn’t bring his people back but it would feel _so damn good_. Just to squeeze a little bit tighter and snap Namor’s pale neck.

A quiet intake of breath.

Their mouths met in a dangerous clash of tongues and sharp, sharp teeth, Namor’s head slamming against the brick with a thud. The taste of blood filled T’Challa’s mouth, bursting across his tongue as he scratched at Namor’s throat and tore at his vest. Grunting, Namor’s head knocked into his violently. He tugged demandingly at the panther suit, rutting against T’Challa urgently.

T’Challa tore his suit off, biting at Namor’s lip as he did. Pushing at his own clothes, Namor’s mouth twisted in a grimace, his bare back scratching along the jagged brick. His cock curved up hard and leaking, sliding against T’Challa’s belly as he slid against him. Namor cupped the back of his head, his tongue slipping into T’Challa’s mouth cleverly. It earned a greedy moan that brought a victorious smile to Namor’s face.

Grimacing, T’Challa slid his hand down Namor’s back, drawing him closer with a needy roll of his hips. He was quickly losing control, losing himself, climbing inside of Namor like a second skin he wanted so desperately to shed. His fingers dipped between Namor’s warm cheeks, Namor’s lips falling open in soft pants. Dry finger tips brushed over the warm entrance and found it slick and wet.

Ripping his hand away, T’Challa backed up, covering his mouth. Namor glared at him, his words biting and impatient. “Can we stop playing this game?”

Silent, T’Challa watched him, his thoughts warring within. Namor moved in closer, annoyance in the defined line of his brow. “Is this selective amnesia?” He gripped T’Challa’s shoulder, marching him backwards, his eyes fierce. “You need this. You crave it. You sought me out.”

“I did not.”

“You did!”

“I don’t trust you!”

“And I don’t trust you. But I still let you inside me. I still show up here when you call. Long after it stopped being about the meeting of the minds and you sunk your claws into me. You and I are the _same_.”

Baring his teeth, T’Challa shoved at his arm and shoved him back violently. Namor nearly stumbled, his eyes on T’Challa as he was shoved back into the table. It nearly came apart as T’Challa turned Namor around and slammed him down over it, leaning over Namor’s back. His fingers slid deep inside of him rather roughly. Namor shuddered, clenching down desperately around the thick digits.

“I don’t need this,” T’Challa hissed, his cock sliding along the smooth skin of Namor’s thigh. He plunged his fingers in deepened, curling downward, earning a curse as Namor pushed back eagerly. “You do. You’re drawing me inside.”

Namor writhed, groaning when T’Challa yanked his head by his hair. Laughing breathlessly, he boasted, “Isn’t that worse? You’re indulging me? Rewarding me for my bad behavior?” T’Challa growled, pulling harder as he lined up the blunt head of his cock.

“That’s it,” Namor crooned, swaying his hips, his entrance flexing readily, slick and inviting.

T’Challa thrust in deep, the heat engulfing him overwhelmingly. Namor let out a guttural moan, his eyes falling shut in pleasure as his hole welcomed T’Challa in needfully. T’Challa hated how familiar this feeling was, how his eyes rolled back. How he craved it, how it ever took long to find Namor’s rhythm. Fucking into him brutally, being matched for strength and power, the sounds of skin slapping against skin in the wreckage of this room.

Namor gave as good as he got, pushing back with a breathy, “That’s it, my king.” He clawed at the hand in his hair, urging T’Challa to pull tighter. “Give me what I so desperately need. This is all for me.” T’Challa slammed into him violently, his body thrumming with energy. Thrusting forward as Namor greedily pushed back to take it. His words came out in gasps, “Fuck me. Harder. Until you actually believe that.”

T’Challa buried his face in the center of Namor’s back, his hips snapping forward. He chased the heat coiling in his center, the urge, the _need_ that never quite went away until he’d emptied himself inside. And even then, it returned with renewed vigor. The need to pour all of it into Namor and carry on pretending. Burying the part of himself that only emerged when they were alone.

He could do this for hours. He could do this for days. Stay drunk on the sight of his length disappearing into Namor’s body, his red, swollen rim stretched tight around T’Challa’s cock. He thumbed it, sliding along the slick entrance as though it could slide in alongside. Stuff him full and keep him that way. Docile and quiet.

Most days, T’Challa wanted to break him. Crush him down and make him feel as small as T’Challa did every day. Make him question and doubt himself, hate himself the way T’Challa did. Split him open, bury himself inside and smother the little voice in the back of his head that heard Namor’s words and the truth to them. The part of him that refused to quiet, growing louder, growing stronger as that sickening heat in his center burned hotter, pulsating, raging along with the fire spreading behind them.

Namor’s thighs spread wider, his belly flat on the splintered wood table, his back littered with scratches from the brick and T’Challa’s hands. He shuddered, cursing as T’Challa shoved one of his legs up on the wood, spreading him impossibly. T’Challa had lost himself, he’d given up. What little control he’d had had been taken from him once again. This was what Namor strived for, what he’d always longed for; where the victory came from: dragging T’Challa into the mud so they could be dirty together.

Panting, he focused on the sweat dripping down Namor’s back, the flushed skin of his neck, the hitching moans escaping his lips. He gazed upon the nail marks on his hips, the bite marks, his hand grasping Namor’s thigh painfully tight as he shoved inside mindlessly. These marks would remain after they left here. Namor would carry this soreness, the evidence of T’Challa’s weakness dripping from his entrance. As much as T’Challa wanted to believe he would walk out of here unscathed, that he could return to his sleepless nights and make the right choices next time… it was a fantasy.

He was a fraud.

He was weak.

Burying himself inside, he wrapped an arm around Namor’s chest and clutched him tighter. Namor cursed lowly, shaking as he clamped down around T’Challa’s length and shot against across the table with a guttural moan. T’Challa pushed in deep, deeper still until he’d made every one of Namor’s breaths his own. His cock pulsed hard, filling Namor to the brim, the slick, wet sounds filthy and incriminating. He chased them, reveling in it, sinking down one notch lower as he drew more hitching moans from Namor’s lips. Arching, Namor pushed back as much as he could, his hole milking more of T’Challa’s release.

“You’ve finally realized it, haven’t you, T’Challa?” Namor breathed, his head slamming into T’Challa’s blood sliding down his nose. T’Challa slammed into him harder, his stomach twisting violently at the sickening pleasure coursing through him. Namor pet his cheek, shuddering in ecstasy. “You’re just like me.”


End file.
